Message In A Bottle
by EleanorKate
Summary: From the suggestion of a guest reviewer on Unfinished Business. I don't have your username to say 'hello', but I hope the story (or at least this part!) is what you were after. Peter is injured on patrol and - eventually - finds himself back at Nonnatus where Sister Evangelina is the one to tend to him. It seems somebody cares after all ;) Likely 3 chapters. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

Standing on the corner of Upper Bank Street the new Sergeant breathed in the chill as the January night swirled around him; a fog slicing its way up through the alleyways and side streets like ghostly fingers before his eyes.

"Just once more round the block" Peter thought as his lungs infused with the icy air, his beat so indelibly imprinted in his mind that he was sure he could walk it backwards and blindfolded. "Back to the station, cup of tea and out again…."

Poplar had been quiet tonight and there was nothing of any significance to report. If anything, Peter was quite thankful that the population was still recovering from their New Year celebrations and hadn't felt the need to be out tonight. Drunks were no longer falling out of pubs now – well at least in not so significant numbers; there was no more raucous singing and no more of the girls down Cable Street trying to give his officers on patrol a 'New Year' kiss and offers of more besides.

With these new stripes came fresh responsibilities to his shift and even though he was only a fortnight in, Peter knew that he had to set an example. He also had to keep an eye out for those perhaps less experienced probationers too and if it meant a few choice words with the locals, then so be it.

Not that Sergeant Noakes was adverse to a celebration or two when the mood took him, but preferably not when he was in uniform. The endless days of walking into public houses with sticky floors, being sworn at just for doing his job and finding the Station House cells overflowing before the shift had even started destroyed any feelings of jollity.

Still, a nice quiet night had been had so far and glancing at his watch, Peter stepped off the curbstone onto the cobbles and across the road intent on just checking that all was clear around the docks. He had walked barely a hundred yards, only hearing the clumping sounds of his own boots as he tramped along, when he saw a familiar cycling figure appear from a side street.

Sister Julienne stopped as soon as she saw him, returning the 'Good Morning' that he uttered.

"Everything well Sister?" Peter asked as the pair stood; the Sister wrapped up in a heavy coat, woollen gloves and a scarf wound tightly around her neck.

"A peaceful night, I think Sergeant" she responded, glad too for Mrs. Lewis' quick and easy labour, so straightforward she was now back on the short road to Nonnatus earlier than expected. "Am I to take it you will be joining us for breakfast?"

Peter had been on nights this week, due to knock off in a couple of hours and breakfast was indeed calling. Lodging at Nonnatus though, Sister Julienne had found she had almost had to persuade him to join them at the dinner table.

"If you don't mind Sister" he replied, still feeling slightly nervous of imposing his presence around the table or in Nonnatus in general for some inexplicable reason. He knew that he wouldn't be allowed to get away with it much longer but at the moment it felt quite disconcerting.

"Not in the least Sergeant" Sister Julienne replied. "There is always a place at the table set for you, rain or shine. Please don't forget that". He was part of the walls, ceiling and floor of Nonnatus now, had been for a while, and the Sister really hoped that he might recognise it one day. Maybe then she, or indeed any of the other women who lived there, would stop having to consciously invite him to eat with them or sit with them if he wished rather that squirrel himself away upstairs.

Peter nodded as with another smile the Sister departed. Perhaps in time his hesitance may wane but he was not quite there yet.

Dark unlit buildings towered over him as he continued his walk towards the docks, the far too familiar odour of something he really wouldn't want to describe filtered across the street. A light at last burnt in the security hut at the gates ahead of him, yet it was of no real surprise the hut was empty as he stuck his head through the open door. Peter held his tongue. So much for keeping the streets of Poplar safe when the guards willingly depart their post more often than not.

This part of the docks was on his usual route and he knew the back alleys and cut-throughs like the back of his hand too. The water, to his right, sparkled in the moonlight; such a shame that it was filthy and full of well…anything you could think of really and most things you wouldn't want to ponder at all.

With nobody around it seemed he had the place to himself. The docks were so busy during the day and in an hour or so it would start to spring back into life, but approaching four o'clock in the morning, the peace was almost eerie. Peter took a glance at the sky; the vast expanse twinkling above him as stars littered every aspect of his view. Quickly he coughed away the tight lump that appeared in his throat at the thought unbidden that clattered forcefully into his mind. Was Freddie was asleep under that vast expanse of sky too or being the devil in dungarees for his Mumma?

 _'_ _Twinkle, twinkle little star….'_ The boy's giggly voice floated around his head from that telephone call yesterday. It was their ritual established since they moved to the Lodge, Freddie singing as he sat on the attic window ledge and Daddy counting the stars. Two days. He'd be back with them in two days and it couldn't come fast enough.

Something suddenly shot past his feet, a flash of fur moving fast over the cobbles; undoubtedly a rat as it disappeared from sight. Peter sighed, this time grateful to be distracted from the thought of his family even if it was down to the local pestilence.

He continued to walk along the edge of the dock watching the water as it rippled from the slight breeze, still conscious of the silence as he cast a glance to his left.

Most of these warehouses were empty now, long gone the days of sugar and cotton being brought into the docks. Mostly now it was just ships full of sailors. 'Pox ridden sailors' as Sister Evangelina had once said. 'Infecting our streets! Haven't we got enough problems to deal with of our own without all those foreigners spreading disease?!'

Peter smiled. She was probably right.

Out of the corner of his eye though he noticed a door, open slightly and swinging gently on its hinges. 'Probably just been left open by accident' he thought, strolling across and intending on just closing it over. Nobody used these warehouses anymore; mostly kept locked to avoid the tramps taking up permanent residence.

That had been his purpose until he saw the rusty padlock on the floor, discarded possibly too carelessly, but clearly severed with what may well have been bolt cutters. He nudged the padlock to one side with his boot, the cut edge catching the street light and paused carefully by the door.

He knew full well that if he whistled for support if there was someone inside it would only serve to draw attention to him. It was probably only another drunk or a tramp anyway and moved them on would be that more than practised routine that didn't need several pairs of hands.

Peter listened by the door for a moment longer, but heard nothing. He pushed the rotting wood; tips of his fingers just resting, ears open to the slightest scratch of a footstep or a fleeting breath, but yes, still silence. Whoever had forced that padlock seemed to be long gone.

He sighed and took a step inside, vision adjusting to the darkness that seemed full to the brim with shadows. A faint smell of cheap alcohol – more like methylated spirit – coasted across for a moment but it was gone as soon as it was there.

All these years as a copper in Poplar he had fine-tuned an eye and ear for trouble and a sixth sense that had been reliable so far so, once again, he had no reason to doubt it. A few steps later, casting a glance smashed wooden boxes piled high and a floor dusty there was clearly nothing to steal. Whoever had broken that rusty old lock clearly thought there was but they would have been most sorely disappointed at the lack of booty.

Pretty sure there was nothing to see he took one quick look around again, not to see the object that from somewhere came crashing down on the back of his head.

The last thing he remembered was the scratch of feet, hurried feet, and the warehouse door banging shut.


	2. Chapter 2

Sliding the aging bolt across the back kitchen door, Sister Mary Cynthia took a step back to pick up the box of rubbish to be thrown away. She loved the dawn, a beginning of a fresh new day alive with possibility and change, the bright orange sun starting to peek its way through the night sky. She shivered though as the cold morning air hit her skin; thankful she was off duty today but there were jobs to be done and putting the rubbish out was first of them. What she did not expect to find as she walked across the yard was another figure standing, or rather slumped, against the inside of the back gate. Her heart almost stopped at the unexpected presence, even though she recognised him immediately.

"Sergeant?!" she exclaimed dropping the box immediately, ignoring the few bits of rubbish that scattered behind her as it fell. She ran over to him.

Peter felt a hand on his arm and the other tipping his head up as he blinked away the fuzziness in his head. Somehow his conscious had clearly decided to take him back to Nonnatus rather than the Station House, even though he couldn't actually remember how he got there or even how long he had been standing inside the yard.

"Peter?" she asked, no time for formalities. He might be in a position of authority but he was a friend too. "What happened?"

He frowned, trying to clear a way through the fog. "Nothing" he muttered, a hand going to the back of his neck, wincing as he felt the soggy patch of blood. The cut, because it clearly was that, stung like there was no tomorrow and he could smell that cheap alcohol again.

"It doesn't look like nothing to me" the Sister replied, seeing the blood stain on his collar that he had managed to smear. "Come on, come inside. Let me look".

Her voice he found soothing in among the chaos inside his head and he nodded, although Sister Mary Cynthia quickly realised he was not so steady on his feet. She paused for second, knowing full well being so slight that if he fell, she would never be able to catch him without hurting them both. Vaguely she heard singing in the kitchen; a voice easily recognisable and perfect in its timing. "Trixie?! Can you help me?!"

With Sister Mary Cynthia holding onto his left arm, Peter heard the squeak of shoes across the tiled floor and saw the blonde appear at the top of the steps leading down in the yard. The Sister also saw Trixie's eyes widen at the sight. "Oh my word!"

Trixie shot down the steps to Peter's other side and held on tight. "I'm fine" he said wearily, looking side to side at both women. "Honestly I am" he pleaded. "Just need to clean myself up".

"No, you are not fine" Trixie replied, seeing the drying trickle of blood running down his neck and the Sister's concerned face at her discovery. "Inside" she ordered. "We need some proper light". Peter submitted. He knew he was going whether he liked it or not and perhaps he might just need a little support getting up those steps.

Once inside, and between the two of them, he was placed down on one of the kitchen chairs; Trixie running to the treatment room to collect supplies leaving Sister Mary Cynthia to ask the question.

"Can you remember what happened?" she inquired quietly just ever so softly tipping his head to one side to see properly where the blood was coming from.

It didn't matter to him really what had happened or who did it, the only person to shoulder any blame was sitting in that chair. "I'm fine" Peter repeated even though he knew full well it was not the case but he just simply did not want the fuss as the only answer was that it was his own fault. The wound on his head was nothing against the beating he was giving himself inside.

"You said that in the yard" the Sister replied, seeing a distinct cut to his scalp, which to her looked to be caused by broken glass. It needed cleaning, stitching and perhaps a visit from Dr Turner. "Peter" she began gently, resting a hand on his chest, even though there was no way on earth he was looking up at her. She could see he was simmering, but not really sure why. "Let me have a look". He shook his head again. Any bouts of temper with Sergeant Noakes tended to diffuse quickly once they were out of his system, but he also had an inherent respect for women and his wife's friends and colleagues. Still though, this mood he was now in consequence, was intent on pushing them away. He didn't deserve their kindness for being so damn _stupid._ "Besides" she continued as they waited for Trixie to return. "If I don't look after you for her, Chummy will see me hung, drawn and quartered and then again for good measure!"

He looked up at the sound of his wife's name. He loved her and needed to hear her voice more than anyone else's now, yet even the mention of her could do nothing to moderate how he felt. "No, I'm fine" he said, his own hand going to the back of his head again to find the cut, fingertips returning to his vision, covered in congealing blood. He grimaced.

Cynthia decided that she needed a different tack if he was so determined, but the trouble was she didn't know what that was. Being forceful wouldn't help and it seemed gentle persuasion was not doing very much good either. She was broken from her thoughts by Trixie returning.

"Right!" the other nurse began, putting the supplies down on the kitchen table. "Let's get you all cleaned up then!"

She saw Sister Mary Cynthia's face first and then that of the wounded officer and swallowed what she was about to say next. She noticed he was hunched over, turned slightly away and certainly in no mood to co-operate; slowly disappearing inside himself as each second passed.

Peter just shook his head, rubbing his palm over the back of his neck. It was starting to hurt too. He must have jarred it in the fall.

He knew full well he should never have even thought of walking into that warehouse alone and frankly, a smack on the back of the head was the least of his worries. So much for that sixth sense that he professed to rely upon so much! How many times he had told younger officers not to place themselves in unnecessary danger and here he was not following his own example. He, quite frankly, deserved everything he got and certainly no care and definitely no sympathy.

She saw the Sister step to one side. "Come on" Trixie replied, in her best coaxing voice. "How many times have you helped us?" She took a pace towards him, doing again what Sister Mary Cynthia had done and took a look at the wound. "Was it a glass bottle?" she asked, one hand resting on his shoulder, close enough now to smell the methylated spirit too.

In truth he had no idea. It really didn't matter.

Gently, and it was gently, he held onto Trixie's wrist pulling it away from its resting place. "There's no need. I'll be fine. I can clean it up myself".

"You sound like a stuck record" she replied, sighing audibly wishing she could get through to him or at least have him explain why he seemed so hell bent on rejecting their care. Male pride at something or other was one thing but this seemed different. Trixie had one eye on his wife too. Chummy would undoubtedly find that shirt in his washing; she'd have more than one or two questions to hand and Nonnatus would be her first port of call.

"We're nurses Peter. It's what we do", Sister Mary Cynthia insisted. Surely after all this time he would realise that they only had his best interests at heart? "We can help and care".

Peter went to stand up, only for him to stumble and try to grab hold of the table, steadied by the two nurses when they realised he might just fall. Stubborn determination was going to get up him up those stairs to the bathroom one way or another where he knew he'd continue to berate himself in silence.

Trixie felt Sister Mary Cynthia's hand on her elbow, pulling her away from their patient for a quiet discussion. She began quickly realising what the Sister was about to say. "We need reinforcements don't we?" Trixie offered.

"We do" Sister Mary Cynthia responded, taking a quick glance back at their patient who had now stood up properly and was taking off his tunic, truly intent on just going upstairs and being left alone to ruminate.

Trixie was about to suggest a way forward, thinking strength in numbers, when they heard someone coming down the hall stairs. Living so long with each other they had started to recognise each other's two nurses smiled conspiratorially at each other; an eyebrow rose from Trixie and a nod of the head followed from Sister Mary Cynthia.

Leaving Peter, who had walked over to the sink and was washing his hands, the two nurses ran quickly to the hall way.


	3. Chapter 3

He could hear whispering and knew perfectly well it was about him. Peter shut his eyes for a moment; the stinging at the back of his head lessening for a moment as he dried is hands. Living here came in handy sometimes and he knew the back way up to the first floor. Now if he could sneak out that way….

"Sergeant!" came a voice from behind him. "What is this I hear about you refusing wholly good medical attention from two perfectly well qualified nurses?"

Peter sighed internally. All he needed was Sister Evangelina in all her glory obstructing his way out of the kitchen and here she was. He stood up straight and turned around, seeing Sister Mary Cynthia and Trixie had vanished. "I'm alright Sister. Just an altercation".

"An altercation that leaves you with blood seeping into your uniform shirt and a face like a stunned kipper, I see?" she replied, bustling over to him, holding onto his arm and turning his head away to see. Peter didn't feel too fabulous on his feet he would admit. Clean up, get changed and lie down. "Turn around properly!" Sister Evangelina commanded. "How I am expected to give you any medical attention if I can't see…."

Peter had little choice but to turn as he was manhandled into it. "Right!" she continued. "That needs a stitch or two. Sit down". She let go of him. He still wanted to beat seven bells of out himself and would really rather to that in private. Instead he headed towards the hallway.

"Where do you think you are going?" Sister Evangelina asked, having quickly glanced across to where Trixie had left the supplies. He was about to say 'I'm fine' again but before he could even think, the Sister was by his side again. He felt a hand on his elbow. "Sit down. Stay there".

Peter sat, deciding that submission was the best option in the circumstances. He felt a little queasy to be honest – hoping it was just lack of food – and tiredness was starting to kick in. He still had a voice though and one which would continue to refuse, even with the thumbscrews on. He just didn't deserve an ounce of sympathy!

"Now, dare I ask how you came about this?" Sister Evangelina asked, pulling a swab from its packing; all business and meaning it. "And I expect more than merely 'an altercation'?" He could moan and whine all he liked but this time he had fallen silent.

Sister Evangelina tutted, thinking out loud. "How glad am I that I can get up the morning and under no circumstances have to contend with the moods of another". She pressed the swab to the back of Peter's head and quite frankly it made his eyes water. "I can only hope the Lord preserves your wife's patience with you all these years". She took his hand and replaced hers with his to hold the cotton in place. He sat up straight and dropped the swab on to the table, bright red blood adorning it. It wasn't done maliciously but he was in no mood to be amiable, and the more it hurt the more it reminded him to think next time.

"Sergeant" she began, to him it sounded as though she had softened her voice slightly. "Above everything else you may think of me and whilst I am being a royal annoyance to you clearly, I am a nurse and I refuse to walk away when it is clear someone, anyone, needs the skills I can provide. Now are you going to continue to be difficult?"

He did understand; just was so embedded in his own refusal to let anyone near him that he was pushing help away. He could see himself doing it.

Sister Evangelina was intent on carrying on and she had an inclination to continue to repeat herself. Her fingertips touched his chin and Peter heard the quick order to open his eyes properly. Carefully Sister Evangelina flicked the light from a torch across each eye. "Well, at least there's little sign of a head injury under there. Imagine it will take more than a glass bottle to crack that thick skull of yours anyway".

Peter bit his tongue. He had to live here for one week in four and whilst Sister Julienne's words rang in his mind, he did have to wonder from time to time if this particular Sister really appreciated his presence with all these comments. Whilst both he and Camilla had heard things they shouldn't – and wondered why - both had let the comments go for fear of rupturing friendships. Peter still wasn't really in the mood with pretty much anything anymore except escaping.

"Do you know, I wonder if we should take offence at your refusal to accept our care?" Sister Evangelina asked as she busied herself around him.

"No, Sister…" he started. The last thing he wanted was them to think he was ungrateful, particularly for all the Sisters had done for him over the years. He just didn't want to talk about this. "I just..." She could see he was struggling. Typical man! Why they couldn't just say the words that needed to be said and be done with it! She had been here with this particular Police Officer before.

To his surprise she took up the seat next to him. "I've seen a lot in my days. Things that would make your hair stand on end. I imagine policing the East End; you've seen enough yourself…."

"I wouldn't disagree" Peter replied, staring down at his hands. Thinks that would make your hair stand on end and more besides.

"Which is why…" Sister Evangelina began, the words almost stuck in her throat although she rested her hand on his arm. "When I see where I can help, I will offer it and I will do it with good heart, even if it is at first not wanted. Sometimes in life there are higher purposes Sergeant". The Sister was about to confess something that she hadn't told a soul before. "Would you like me to tell you something?"

He nodded.

"When you were faffing about standing like a statute failing to ask your wife to the pictures, my first reaction was to clap your heads together". She saw Peter smile. "My second reaction was my need for cake and the fact that, even I could see that every time you looked at her she lit up like a candlestick. Something had to be done about it and as you weren't..." She shrugged her shoulders, going back to the medical supplies before them.

Peter nodded. "And we are grateful Sister. Truly". He was being entirely honest. If she hadn't said something, he'd never have done uttered those words and Camilla may never have said yes. There'd be no wedding, no little blonde haired monster that was the absolute joy of his life. He owed the Sisters a lot; Sister Evangelina even more.

"I may say a lot of things Sergeant", she replied, folding out another swab, "and they may not necessarily be the most complimentary, but I do not believe in pandering to all and sundry and if a job needs doing, it needs doing whichever way possible."

"I know" he replied. "I think….."

"You think?"

Peter frowned. He was only used to talking to himself or Camilla about his worries, but he wasn't alone and she wasn't here. He sighed loudly. "I should never have gone into that building. I tell the probationers time and time again. Make sure you choose your own safety first".

"Ah…" Sister Evangelina replied, taking up the piece of gauze and dousing it in saline. Peter felt her wipe the cloth along the edge of his shirt, taking up some of the dried blood from his neck. "So you are torturing yourself silly for not taking your own advice?"

Peter breathed out heavily. "Yes".

"And I take it that's why you refuse to let us help?" she asked. What he hadn't realised that whilst they had been talking, the Sister had made short work of cleaning the wound as by each second, the barrier that he had put up was starting to drop.

He nodded forlornly.

"Well, take it from me Sergeant. Despite…" she paused for a moment, wanting to be entirely sure there was little chance of being overheard. "Despite everything I might say or do, I am capable of finding a smallest corner within myself to be understanding. Do you think I've got to this ripe old age without a moment or two of regret or what if or enough castigation to live my life ten times over?"

He looked up at her out of the corner of his eye, feeling sheepish and just a touch embarrassed.

"We all make mistakes. Do things in the moment. Be fooled by our own confidence" she replied. Even me, she thought quietly as she picked up a fresh swab, pausing for a moment to think and putting it back down. "For all things that go on in the world" she continued. "The one thing, just at this moment, that concerns me, is the fact you are hurt and need the help I can give. Regardless of whether you want to forgive yourself or not. I can forgive for you".

Peter picked up the swab that she had left behind and pressed it over the wound.

"Much better" she replied with a smile. "My Sisters will tell you and so will I that we have a family here and you Sergeant are part of it whether you like it or not..." She paused as her words were clearly sinking in. "Now will you finally let me stitch this wound?" Sister Evangelina inquired. "I don't have all morning to tend to your needs. There are more co-operative patients out there to treat!" It was like a switch had just flicked.

Peter looked up and smiled at her. For once she smiled back with utter recognition of the understanding that they had now come to.

"And we won't hear a word of this conversation outside this room, will we?" she said, him still holding the swab to the back of his head and her fishing around for a sterile needle.

He smiled again. "No Sister" he replied. "Of course not Sister".

"Good".

FIN


End file.
